Keep The Nightmares Out, Give Me Mouth To Mouth
by Vociferocity
Summary: Will Graham lies awake in the middle of the night, open eyes fixed on the ceiling, and pretends to wait for sleep.


Will Graham lies awake in the middle of the night, open eyes fixed on the ceiling, and pretends to wait for sleep. It's hardly the first night he's spent awake, trying not to inhabit a killer's body and relive a killer's actions in his sleep, and he knows it won't be the last. It's fair enough, he reasons. He has this - for lack of a better word, _ability_ - and it allows him to help people. It's fair enough that there are drawbacks:

He stops a serial killer from slaughtering any more terrified, lonely children, and he has nightmares for six months, sweats through every sheet he owns until every day is laundry day, until he's sleepwalking through his own life.

He's tired.

He's _so tired_.

He closes his eyes for what could be seconds or hours, and opens them again. Stares up at the ceiling. Rolls onto his side, barely even noticing the sparse dark shapes that make up his bedroom. If he was someone else, he knows, those shapes might unsettle him; he'd imagine them to be monsters or killers and lie awake, wracked with fear. As it is, he doesn't fear that they might be killers; he wishes that they were.

Will is not a self-destructive man; he holds on to his humanity as hard as he can, even while forgetting to eat for days and running on the bare minimum of sleep. He wants to be alive, as hard as it is for him to live. As rarely as he feels he deserves it.

But some nights he wishes it would all just - go away. Some nights he feels empty and tired. Finished. Some nights he wishes someone would come and just make that final, impossible decision for him.

There's a knock on the front door.

Something has changed in the air; an inexplicable dreamlike quality, a smothering of sounds and softening of fears. The sheets feel different under his hands, everything feels smaller, and at the same time, larger. His teeth feel like strangers. Will knows he's dreaming, but for once it's not a nightmare.

The knock comes again, and something about the terse, staccato noise makes Will certain that it will not come a third time.

He wants to call out to his mysterious dream visitor to tell them he's coming, but he knows if he makes a sound then he'll wake, and dreaming about being in his own bed is so much better than being awake in his own bed. Or dreaming about slaughter.

Will climbs out of the bed, pads through the soft air to the front door, and opens it.

He's dimly surprised to see the form of the good Dr Lecter standing there. It was never going to be Jack; he respects Will only while he's useful, but this is a dream dredged up from his subconscious to comfort him, surely. So why isn't it Alana? Dr Lecter is an enigma; a carefully blank face that doesn't flinch when Will calls himself a monster. Doesn't flinch, and doesn't disagree. He's hardly comforting.

Having trouble sleeping, Will? Dr Lecter asks, and Will lifts one shoulder in an awkward shrug, eyes on the perfect knot of Dr Lecter's tie. He smiles ruefully at his brain; even in a dream, he can't imagine Dr Lecter looking any different.

Maybe I can help, he continues, and in his peripheral vision Will can see that Dr Lecter is looking hard at him. Let me in.

Will steps back, still carefully mute. He's not sure where this is going, but as long as he doesn't have to wield a bloody knife, he's willing to let the dream unfold as it pleases.

Dr Lecter follows him inside, one step forward for every one of Will's backward shuffles.

He looks around, at the tightly controlled chaos of Will's life. Will looks around too; he'd be more impressed at the level of detail of this dream, but every stag-filled dream he's had so far has been just as visually accurate. He wonders if everyone dreams in such vivid detail. When he wakes, he'll have to remember to ask someone about it: Alana, perhaps. Maybe he'll just google it; google, at least, doesn't ask embarrassing questions.

Come, Dr Lecter says at last, and leads the way to Will's bed. Sits on it, and beckons Will closer.

Oh.

Will hadn't - he'd never –

He hadn't thought it was going to be this kind of dream. Hadn't considered Dr Lecter like that - at all. Had he? This was his dream, after all. So - maybe.

He stands there, frozen in indecision for what feels like eternity, until the corner of Dr Lecter's mouth does something sardonic.

This isn't a proposition, Will, he corrects quietly. Just something to help you sleep.

I'm already asleep, Will wants to say. You're already helping. This is the nicest dream I've had in a really long time.

Instead he pads closer, clambers awkwardly back onto the still-warm bed. He doesn't remember the last time he actually felt something in a dream that wasn't a spray of hot, sticky blood, or the slow slide of salty, disappointed tears. This dream is soft and warm, and he can feel a deeper part of himself already tucking it away to revisit on other sleepless nights. He'd been surprised at Dr Lecter's presence in this dream, hadn't thought it could be comforting, but it turned out his subconscious knew better. Just like always.

A warm weight descends onto his shoulder, and when he turns, he sees that it's Dr Lecter's hand. With a firm, steady grip, the good doctor eases him down until Will is once again horizontal, on his side, staring at the same dark shapes he'd contemplated while awake. The bed dips as Dr Lecter follows, his hand sliding down until it's a steady weight on his hip; an anchor, like the solid warm length of Dr Lecter pressed against his back.

He shivers, and he's not sure if it's fuelled by fear or longing.

Sleep, Dr Lecter mutters softly, his breath warm on Will's ear. Will closes his eyes, even as he tries to cling to this dream. But he can feel it dissolving, the delicate strands drifting apart and gleaming like a cobweb in the sun.

And Will Graham sleeps at last.


End file.
